Saturday, November 28, 2009

Collecting Shells

 

Upon the sea shore I do walk;

The gaudy shell of size I stalk.

I find them scattered by the waves,

Nothing now but calcium graves.

Seeking large and noble shell,

I dream of starting a cartel

That hoards the bivalve brightly dyed

And the giant mollusk's pride

To sell for profit, 'twould be bliss . . .

And if I found some ambergris!

While with these dreams I am beguiled

I spot a lone and quiet child

Who picks around the dimpled sands

With small, uncertain, gentle hands.

She finds an object finally,

So little that I cannot see.

So up to her I slowly go;

For what she has I have to know.

She gladly shows me in her palm

A tiny shell that's for her mom.

She scampers off and I am struck

By thoughts that leave me in a muck.

Delusions have me in their thrall;

Tomorrow has no gold at all.

The smallest good, when done today,

Exceeds the riches of Cathay.



Windows Live: Friends get your Flickr, Yelp, and Digg updates when they e-mail you.

Bucket List

I, too, have got a bucket list, like in that picture show

that Nicholson and Freeman made about a year ago.

Before I kick the bucket I am hoping that email

Will falter and go offline and forever after fail.

That I can write some letters to my kids and friends abroad

And that I will receive back their responses by the wad.

I want to eat a hard-boiled egg without that sulfur smell.

I want to give a homely girl a beautiful sea shell.

I want to write a get-well card that's actually sincere.

I want to put a flea into a congressman's tin ear.

I want a pair of cashmere socks, and someone to explain

What exactly can you rhyme with something like 'plantain'.

Finally, I'd like to make an angel laugh out loud –

And hope that up in heaven they don't rule: NO JOKES ALLOWED.

 



Windows Live: Friends get your Flickr, Yelp, and Digg updates when they e-mail you.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Gender Disappointment

Babies are a lot of trouble,

Whether girl or boy;

Gender makes no diff'rence

When you change a diaper – oy!

Then when they grow older

They have got an appetite

That either is too picky

Or will bleed your wallet white.

As an adolescent

They are drama queens & kings,

Making you impatient

To cut all the apron strings.

Finally they leave the nest

But come right back again,

This time with a boyfriend

Or a hankering for Zen.

Gender Disappointment?

That is far too nice a term.

When it comes to babies

You should treat 'em like a germ!



Windows Live: Make it easier for your friends to see what you're up to on Facebook.

Monday, November 16, 2009

I wonder what became of me?

I'm hooked up to my Blackberry,

I'm Twittering like mad;

My iPod's got downloaded tunes

That totally are rad.

I'm texting on my cell phone

And my ring tone is Big Ben.

At Starbucks I am quite the guy;

My Wii games are Top Ten.

My laptop brings up Facebook

And a Youtube fantasy.

The only thing I cannot find

Is somebody called "me".



Windows Live: Friends get your Flickr, Yelp, and Digg updates when they e-mail you.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Uncle Jim

Uncle Jim loved ice fishing, and Hamm's beer, in that order.

He had a job and had a wife, and loved her – kinda sorter.

But when the gales of winter blew and ice formed on the lake

He wouldn't hang around the house for French fries nor a steak.

But out the door like bats from hell he'd streak with tackle box,

Putting on his parka but forgetting woolen socks.

On White Bear Lake he had his shack, a piscine sanctuary,

Where he could sit and guzzle Hamm's – he had no use for dairy.

A heater full of kerosene gave off a lethal haze,

But since he smoked a pack a day it didn't even faze.

He set his jig stick with great care, a meal worm on the hook,

Then commanded silence, for no talking would he brook.

Others might go socialize upon the icy brink;

But he was there to fish and also have a little drink.

The Hamm's flowed in at rapid pace, and here's the mystery,

No matter how much he would drink he never had to pee!

No yellow ice around his shack, just Winston butts galore;

He figured in the summer they would beautify the shore.

On Sundays when his wife and kids would always go to church

Old Uncle Jim was worshipping the crappie and the perch.

And when his wife and kids came home and thought him such a sinner,

He'd waltz in with a mess of fish and cook a big shore dinner.

I don't know how he kept his job; he was an absentee

From December 'til was time to pay his docking fee.

Perhaps his boss liked fishing, too, and wasn't so averse

to Hamm's and other beverages that men do tend to nurse.

He had a home and garden and his kids turned out all right

And though his wife looked daggers they would rarely ever fight.

Maybe it's because, come spring, when ice fishing was done

He'd stay at home, a-puttering, and chores would gladly run.

Not for him the glassy lake with boat and casting reel –

Without the snow and frostbite it did not have much appeal.

Now that he has gone to his reward, I fear that Hamm's

Will never have a customer who drinks it in such drams.

Those old Norwegians never saw their lifestyles as an error;

And wives who would put up with them are certainly much rarer!



Windows Live: Make it easier for your friends to see what you're up to on Facebook.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Lord of the Flies

Stranded on a dessert isle, a bunch of boys defies

Logic with their actions in the book Lord of the Flies.

A pretty crummy novel, with a pretty crummy theme,

That mimics all the antics of a high school football team.

William Golding wrote the tale to show that men are beasts

Unless they have firm government and brimstone-spouting priests.

Even though the whole thing is put up as allegory

It's got blood and guts just like a Stephen King short story.

The boys begin their journey by electing someone boss

But after that they seem to be completely at a loss.

They hunt a pig and put its head upon a sharpened stick

And what they do to fat boys ought to make you mighty sick.

Everyone wears war paint, runs around in underwear,

Beats up on his neighbor and does nothing much but swear.

Of course the kids are British which does help explain a lot;

They can never hold elections without being overwrought.

At last the boys are rescued by the noble British fleet

But not before a few of them are turned into mincemeat.

This is required reading in our colleges today—

No wonder kids would rather all those video games play.



Keep your friends updated— even when you're not signed in.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

robin hood

Deep in Sherwood forest Robin Hood and Merry Men

Keep their fingers sticky stealing chimes from off Big Ben.

They shoot a bunch of arrows and they seem to be in luck

As they bring down roasted pigeons and a butchered-out roe buck.

Dressed in green, with pointy caps, and leotards as well,

No one tells them to go bathe, and brother do they smell!

They cannot stand the Sheriff so they rob his people blind,

Leaving him with nothing but a moldy old cheese rind.

Maid Marian drops in to play at cops-n-robbers, too.

The whole gang's drinking mead & ale, nobody's feeling blue.

Little John and Friar Tuck go look for merchants hoarding

Lots of gold, which Robin Hood finds exceptionally rewarding.

He robs the rich and feeds the poor and puts a bit aside

And hires smart accountants all this wampum to go hide.

Some say he is a yeoman and some say that he has rank

But none of them know anything about his offshore bank.

To maximize his profits he starts a new franchise,

Selling Sherwood woodwork and cheap archery supplies.

The sheriff and sharp Robin Hood decide they will embark

Together on a project to construct a Hoodland Park,

With rides and Friar Tuck dolls and funnel cakes galore.

Maid Marian is put in charge of every gimcrack store.

The kids get bows and arrows and feathers in their caps.

Little John makes quite a haul by selling tourist maps.

Now everyone is happy – King Richard . . . maybe not.

He got stuck with crowd control out in the parking lot.



Windows Live: Keep your friends up to date with what you do online.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Atlas Mugged

A book that's coming back in style was written by Ayn Rand.

The plutocrats said 'twas a map unto the Promised Land.

Called Atlas Shrugged, it tells the tale of some guy, name of Galt,

Who is the modest hero, though his scotch is single malt.

The story's in the future, and we're in a pretty mess;

The public has gone Socialist – does nothing but play chess.

The government has taken over all the industry;

Everyone's got health care and good job security.

Ms Rand paints lurid pictures of the lazy, stupid crowd,

Who turn their back on Wall Street (which must never be allowed!)

So one by one the moguls who have run big companies

Take a powder, bringing folk down to their commie knees.

Without their wise experience the tides no longer lap,

The birds forget to use their wings, the trees run out of sap.

The sun no longer rises and the moon is quite erratic

And dust begins to gather in the closets and the attic.

That's when Galt, the hero, leaps into the fray at last

And shows the people CEO's must be the upper caste.

With a shout of pleasure all the people do agree

(and that's why this is fiction, not a work of history.)

This book stirred up a ruckus when it came out in the Fifties;

Ms Rand was feted as among the notables and nifties.

Exalting greed and markets free of all hidebound constraint,

Made her to all the moneybags a literary saint.

You'd think that in the interim we'd wise up just a bit,

And never fall for such self-serving novelistic ****.

But there you are, the book again is topping all the charts –

Bamboozling the youngsters and befuddling old farts.



Windows Live Hotmail: Your friends can get your Facebook updates, right from Hotmail®.